


Shadow on the Sun

by CaesarVulpes



Series: Light My Way [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Asexual Character, Cats, Crane's asexual sorry I dont make the rules, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Use, Gen, Jonathan Crane: Human Disaster, Polyamorous Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-breakup, Self Harm, could be read as romantic crane/selina, gray ace Jonathan Crane, i dont mind, im a mess, these tags are a mess, though i intended for it to be platonic, woops my hand slipped Crane's poly too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6636202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaesarVulpes/pseuds/CaesarVulpes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan Crane is a disaster after Eddie leaves. Someone has to clean up after him, and he's in no position to do it himself.</p><p>Rating is for language mostly, and depictions of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He’s lying on his back on something soft. Soft-ish. Softer than the ground, at least. He’s wet and sticky and for a moment he wonders if he’s been lying here so long he pissed himself, but no, now he can smell the blood. It seems to be everywhere. Which should probably concern him more than it does.

There’s a soft voice a long way away. It might be close, but Jonathan’s not sure where he is in relation to his own body, let alone mysterious voices. He focuses on it, it’s such a nice sound after all. He wonders what the screams would sound like.

“…you are?”

His throat is dry, tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. His voice comes out as a croak, sounding even more detached than he is.

“What?”

“Do you know where you are?”

Now he recognizes the voice. He groans. “Hell?”

“Rude,” Selina says. He looks over at her, leaning casually in the doorway, her amber eyes narrowed in a patented mix of concern and anger. “The question stands.”

“My house. I don’t remember inviting _you_.”

“ _Rude._ ” She sighs, comes closer. She’s holding what appears to be an Easter basket. “There was a dead guy in your den—which I took care of, by the way, you’re welcome. I assume you did that while you were out of it.”

“I assume so.” He inspects the dried blood under his nails, avoiding her eyes. “That blouse looks lovely on you, by the way.”

“Thank you, it’s new.” This doesn’t derail her as he’d hoped, as she merely continues. “You don’t know? You’re dissociating so hard you don’t remember if you killed him, and you still don’t think this is a problem. And stop trying to distract me with empty flattery, Jonathan, it’s cheap.”

He huffs. He was being honest about the shirt. Lavender looks good against her dark skin, and the fitted silk highlights her lean muscle.

“It happens a lot. Side effect of long-term exposure to my toxins, I assume.”

“You _assume?”_

He huffs, looking away from her, back up to the ceiling.

“What do you want, Selina?”

“To make sure my idiot friend doesn’t die.”

He groans and pulls a pillow over his face. He wishes she wouldn’t do this. It would be so much easier to off himself if she’d stop trying to fix him.

“When’s the last time you showered?” she asks. “Your hair looks gross.”

“Yesterday,” he grumbles.

“Uh huh,” she says skeptically, “And what day was yesterday?”

“…Tuesday?”

“It’s Sunday. Get up.” She throws the basket at him. It collides with the side of his head with a clunk and a burst of pain. “Happy Easter, dipshit.”


	2. Chapter 2

She sits heavily on the threadbare corduroy sofa, pops open the wine. Jonathan has always been a disaster but now it’s personal. Incredibly personal.

A large gray tom hops neatly into her lap uninvited. _Plague_ , she remembers, because _of course he would name a cat Plague_. She strokes him idly, the other two not far behind him. Wraith is a tiny thing, all pale fur and short legs, and Torch is a rather beautiful tortoiseshell with burns on half of her face.

She coos, tries to get them closer, but Wraith is as shy as she remembers and Torch—again, of fucking course he’d name her that—has only affection for Jonathan.

Selina remembers the day he brought them to her for help, covered in debris and reeking of smoke. After the burns were treated and the cats were sleeping she’d managed to coax out of him that yes, he had run into a burning building and no, he didn’t remember how he got four cracked ribs.

 _“He ran back in,”_ Jonathan had explained as she picked debris from his hair, _“The big one, he came out, looked me in the eye, and ran back inside. Like he was asking for help. I knew there had to be more in there; what was I supposed to do, let them burn?”_

She still wonders if he’ll ever see how strange it is to know he’s done this while she watches him torture a stranger to death with gusto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I cram a ton of headcanons where they dont belong. Woops.


	3. Chapter 3

She’s right. His hair is gross, even without the blood. It’s also getting far too long, nearly down to his shoulders now, its curl effectively transforming it into a fucking finger trap. He makes a note to cut it once Selina leaves. The only soap he can find is—was—Edward’s and he’s not equipped for that right now. His whole body gets shampoo.

The mirror is cracked. That, he remembers. He peers at his reflection once he’s found his glasses, wiping away the fog on the broken glass. The face barely feels like his own on the best of days, and this might be one of the worst. Narrow face, long nose, high cheekbones covered in freckles. Damp, dark hair with much more gray at the temple than he remembers. Dead, hollow blue eyes. He hates those eyes. He hates everything surrounding them, from the vaguely reddish stubble to the roiling tar pit of his mind.

He doesn’t actually remember having such pronounced crow’s feet.

He comes out still rubbing his throbbing head. Selina is lounging on his—their— _his_ —couch, petting the largest of his cats. The other two are nearby, no doubt.

“What the fuck was in that basket?”

“Bottle of wine, some weed from Jervis. Also Peeps.”

“I thought you were trying to curb my alcoholism.”

“I am, you’re going to share it with me.” She picks it up, pours herself a generous glass. “It’s expensive. You’re welcome, again.”

He sits heavily beside her, absently stroking Torch’s soft, dark fur as she hops up into his lap and begins to purr madly. He reaches for the bottle and Selina slaps his hand away.

“Not on an empty stomach. That’s what the peeps are for.” She thrusts the pack at him and he takes it before he has a chance to realize he could have refused.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re really not. Glossing over your mental issues you’re even thinner than last time I was here.”

“So? You know I can function without it for awhile.”

“Because you don’t know how well you’d function if you ate like a normal person. I assume you haven’t been sleeping, either.”

“You know why.”

She really doesn’t. He means to imply the night terrors, nightmares, sleep paralysis. She knows all of that, but she doesn’t know how awful it is waking up in an empty bed after so long. Being cold again, after so long in the sun, so to speak.

He stomachs the peeps and tunes her out until his second glass of wine.

“Sionis says he has a job for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You can’t sulk in here forever, Jon.”

He drinks deeply, reaches for the bottle.

“I don’t care.” He hates the look of concern, of pity. “And I’m not sulking.”

“You’re a fucking mess, Jon. Eddie—”

“ _Don’t_.” He can’t do this. He can’t talk about it. Especially not in this empty house, the one that used to be the only home he’d ever had.

“Shouldn’t you be looking after him,” he snaps, “You know how he gets on his own.”

She falters.

“He’s working.” 

“You’re lying to me.” The anger building in his stomach is tempered by frantic worry. “What has he done?”

Selina, for once, looks agitated. Worried, even. It’s incredibly alarming.

“…he is working. Just…Just too hard. He’s not sleeping, he’s lost weight, he hasn’t even come to pick up Cyrano yet and it’s been a month.”

Jonathan’s stomach drops. The Edward Nigma he knows could hardly stand to be away from his cat for a weekend, let alone a month. He spoils the thing rotten, he wouldn’t just leave him even if it was with Selina.

“…I’ve fucked everything up, haven’t I?” His mouth is dry and another half-glass of wine doesn’t help. “I broke him.”

“What did you _think_ would happen when you hit him and tried to strangle him?”

“I wasn’t thinking much of anything, to be honest.”

He had only been feeling, really. Jealousy, rage, ownership. Edward had been _his_ , after all. And now he wasn’t, because of one careless action, one drunken lapse in judgement. One that could very well have killed them both.

He would have died with Edward. He wants to die now.

“Tell me someone’s looking after him.”

Selina sighs. “Freeze is working with him now. We’ve—Harley and I—we’ve asked him to keep an eye on him, maybe stall their setup so he can’t run off.”

Jonathan nods, throat tight, but a little more at ease. Fries may not be exactly warm or kind, but he’s reliable. His loyalty is a powerful thing, and Edward has always been good to him. Sweet, even.

“He’ll be okay.”

“Don’t pity me, Selina, it’s unbecoming.”

“I know you too well to pity you. I just worry for you.”

He needs a stronger drink. Really needs one.

“Have you spoken to him?”

_Did he tell you that I begged? That I fell to my knees and wept, begged him to forgive me, to stay with me?_

“A little, but not much. He slept on my couch the first night but he was gone in the morning.”

“You fuck him?”

She raises an eyebrow, purses her lips. He’s trying to drive her off, and it probably won’t work if she knows he’s doing it.

“No, but I’m surprised you did. Aren’t you asexual?”

Fuck, she does know and she’s punishing him. Her tone isn’t accusatory but it is pointed, and he can feel himself going red all the way to the shoulder.

“I—Yes but—that’s—” He splutters, resents the little grin tugging at her mouth “It’s—it’s different. I wasn’t—I didn’t want anyone until him. I still don’t.”

It’s not exactly true, but close enough that it doesn’t count as a lie. There had been inklings before but never enough to act upon. And then Eddie showed up like a beacon, like a pale god, and it had been so intense he almost killed him the moment he realized what he was feeling.

“That’s fair. You weren’t pressured, were you?”

“ _God,_ no. Can we _not?”_ He drinks deeply as if to demonstrate. She raises her hands in surrender and pours herself another reasonable measure.

This _is_ Hell. 


	4. Chapter 4

They finish the bottle of wine. He stands, sways a little. He is weaker than he thought, and he hates her for being right.

“I need a smoke, I’m going to the roof.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He scoffs, starts for the stairs. “I’m not going to jump, Selina. It’s not my style.”

“I know you don’t intend to right this minute.”

The air is crisper than he thought it would be, the sun mercifully behind a thin layer of cloud. He fishes a pack out of the crate he keeps up here—though he supposes he doesn’t need to anymore. There’s no one left to care whether he stinks up the house.

“You smoke menthols?” He manages a chuckle at the look on Selina’s face.

“I smoke whatever I can get.”

“You can get whatever you want. Don’t pretend you paid for any of these.” She nudges the box with her foot. He laughs again and almost means it this time. This is good, this is progress.

She looks a little relieved that he’s smiling. He resists the urge to blow smoke in her face, his scowl back where it belongs. Fuck progress.

Selina sighs, leans on the railing beside him.

“You can let yourself have what you want, you know.”

He scoffs. “Have we met? I have the second worst impulse control in the city.”

“That’s not what I mean. You don’t smoke what you want, just what you find.” He rolls his eyes and she narrows hers, leans closer to him.

“You’re like that with _everything_ except your lab; you don’t always have to settle, Jon.”

“We’re not all wealthy master thieves. Some of us have budgets.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

She huffs, but something in his posture must give away how intensely he doesn’t want to talk about this because she lets him smoke the rest of his cigarette in silence.

Eddie could never do that, he could never seem to stop talking about something or the other. Sometimes Jonathan wonders what his diagnosis would be. PTSD, for certain, perhaps OCD, definitely some form of anxiety disorder. What will Eddie do now if he has a panic attack, if the weight of his memories begins to crush him again?

The thought is agony, but the sick satisfaction of how beautiful Eddie’s fear is still curls in his belly. He clings to it, wills it to blossom into its former cold indifference, fingers shaking as he lights another cigarette.

He imagines Eddie’s frantic breaths, his delicate hands shaking as he brings his fingers to his mouth and bites so hard he dribbles blood all down his chin. A bead of it welling in the little gap between his front teeth. Sweat beginning to slick his ginger hair at the temples, his pretty eyes wide and glazed.

God, he misses those eyes. He’s been trying so hard to feel as cold as he once did but he can’t stop himself imagining prying Eddie’s hand from his mouth, kissing the blood from his lips, offering whatever soft words will soothe him.

“I love him so much.”

Jonathan winces immediately, wants to punch something. He really, really didn’t want to say that. He hates that he’s said it, hates that he means it. God, he hates this. He takes another drag to shut himself up. A great wail goes up inside him, a roar of agony throws itself against his ribs. The more he tries not to think of the sound of Eddie’s voice, the smell of his hair, the more it howls.

“I know you do.”

God, that’s even worse. And now his throat is tight and his eyes are burning and he’s not going to cry in front of her. He doesn’t have the right. He’s the one who fucked everything up.

There’s something on his face and it’s not tears, he’s not crying, he’s _not fucking crying._

Fuck, he’s crying so hard he can’t see, hunched over the railing and barely feeling it dig into his ribs. He’s crying so hard his knees threaten to give, so hard that he can barely feel Selina put an arm around him.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun is setting by the time Jonathan cries himself out. Selina keeps her arm around him while he sniffles, wipes at his face with trembling hands. There’s an awful ache deep in her chest to see him like this, shrunken and miserable and shaking against her.

He looks like a child like this, his eyes wide, haunted, lost. She wipes away the last few tears with a gentle hand, cups his freckly face. He leans into her hand, reddened eyes squeezing shut.

“You know I love you, don’t you Jon?”

He nods weakly, rests his head on her shoulder.

“I don’t deserve it,” he says, voice thick with misery.

“Does anyone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I'm just posting each section as I finish because if I don't I'll never finish this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to self-harm/self-inflicted wounds. Please proceed with caution if you find this unnerving.

He knows how pathetic he looks when he cries, his eyes puffy, his face red, his mouth trembling. He sniffles into silence gradually, wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“’M sorry,” he manages, and Selina hugs him tighter, her shoulder warm and silken against his face.

“It’s okay.”

“I just…”

Just what?

_Just wish you weren’t here to stop me going over the railing right now? Just want to forget I ever pretended I could be human?_

“I tried. I tried so hard, I swear.” He lets himself wrap his arms around her, lets himself cling to her like a child with its mother. Not that he would know. Not that he deserves to.

“I know you did. It doesn’t excuse what you did, but I know how hard you tried.”

_Do you really?_

She’s one of the few who truly knows how physically violent he can be, knows how he glories in it, the adrenaline, the satisfying give of flesh and bone alike. The breaking of a human mind is beautiful, but the visceral rush of hot blood over his hands is satisfying at a more animal level.

And he wanted that to be Eddie’s more times than he can count. Wanted to strip flesh from bone, to bite his pretty throat until he felt the sickeningly satisfying crush of his trachea. It’s nauseating to think how much he would enjoy it, and agony to think how much he would miss him. He misses him now.

Selina has been leading him downstairs by the hand and he doesn’t know how long it’s been. She stops.

“Are you here?”

He shakes his head, the absurd floating feeling back in his hands. The floor isn’t solid enough, the air too thin. He might be lying in bed right now, and he could never know. He doesn’t know when he stopped being able to tell the difference between _real_ real and drug real.

He’s sitting, suddenly. Maybe. He’s dimly aware of someone hyperventilating, and the feeling is in his chest, his throat, but it might not be him. Whose body is this?

It’s dark, it seems like the person who is hyperventilating closed his eyes. Everything appears to be swirling, swaying.

And then there’s a warmth from somewhere and it’s so beautiful he gasps. It feels like sunlight on his face—his face, it’s definitely _his_ face. It feels like being drawn out of sleep, or into it, or into bed. He’s being drawn back into reality, into his body, he’s—

He _is_ the one hyperventilating. Shit.

He opens his eyes and gets the gold of sunlight and that doesn’t make any sense, even with the breathtaking heat on his face, he’s still sitting on the stairs. It takes a while to realize what he’s looking at is Selina’s eyes. The sunlight he feels must be her hands.

“Are you here?”

He nods weakly. She takes his hands in hers, and they’re always rougher than he remembers, than he would expect. Hard, sure and calloused. And so, so warm.

He loses himself in the sensation until they’re on the couch again, when she’s letting go of one hand to push at his sleeve.

He swats the offending hand away, pulls out of her grasp. He’d entirely forgotten to hide the burn on the inside of his wrist. Stupid, rookie mistake.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he snaps, voice much weaker than he would like it to be.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she says, and her voice has knives in it. Her eyes are burning.

“It’s none of your—I’m not—”

“Jonathan, come back here.”

“I’m—”

“ _Now._ ”

He swallows hard, mouth dry, clutching the arm to his chest so tightly he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers.

“Jon. Please.”

This time she doesn’t grab for him, her hand extended slowly with the palm facing up. Her eyes are still fire, but her voice is gentle.

“Let me see. Please.”

His hand is halfway to hers before he can think. He’s so tired, too tired for this. Her grip is firm but gentle, dark fingers skating just above the burn.

She pushes his sleeve up farther, exposing the neat line of cigarette burns along the inside of his forearm.

“You do this on purpose?”

He nods. He’s too exhausted to lie to her. He never could lie to her anyway.

“It helps when I can’t tell what’s real.” It’s also a punishment, one less messy than cutting. Easier to cover up, quicker to heal. Easy to press a thumb into for a quick jolt back into the present, without having to worry about stains.

She gives him a look but mercifully doesn’t voice the concern, the pity. Her eyes are softer now. She merely bends and kisses between each of the marks, gently, makes her way up to the faded scars on the inside of his elbow. He melts into it, his tense shoulders sagging. It’s not romantic, though it is intimate. It might be romantic. He doesn't think he cares what it is. Just that it’s hypnotic to trust her warm hands so fully, to know that she, in turn, trusts him to understand what she’s giving, or at least to take it without judgement or expectation.

“You don’t deserve this.”

He does, though. He was supposed to be different, he was supposed to be Eddie’s safe place. Instead he was just another pair of cruel hands. He’s the worst kind of creature there is. Second worst at best.

“Who gets to decide what I deserve?”

She leans up and kisses his forehead, her lips soft.

“The people who love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where the polyamory tags come into play. I honestly don't know if this is romance or not. It's open to interpretation, really. Whatever you get out of it is fine by me.


End file.
